The Pattern He Sees
by shi-chan
Summary: Spirit never really liked new cities or towns. They were always too strange or too new for him. But he knew, within each city, there is a familiar pattern that is unchanging.


I do not own Soul Eater. This is a complete work of fiction.

**THE PATTERN HE SEES**

There is a pattern in every city.

There is no familiarity in the foreign steps of the grounds he walks in, no understanding of culture in what seems to be a multi-racial metropolis. There is no understanding of how things function here, its governing procedures or its laws. Faces come and go, names come and go, idle conversation, a question here, an answer there. Spirit does not feel like he is part of the city, just like the many previous assignments he has been assigned to over the years. There is never a feeling of home, a feeling of comfort in the cities he visits. London, Paris, Moscow, Beijing, Florence, they are all distant lands that he does not venture to unless he needs to.

Because they are all strange to him, their clockwork and mechanism varying from one and another.

Spirit carries his instructions. His order is summarized in to one word; reconnaissance. There is no work to be done, there is no target to be apprehended in this metropolis, an oasis amidst endless dunes of golden sands, sands that carry secrets and history. It is a rich place, both in tradition and technology, a clash between the past and future under the burning rays of the sun. It is only the heat wave that is constant where everything else moves quick and without pause.

He does not know what he is looking for. He does not know what to observe specifically.

So Spirit observes everything.

Their laws and clockwork.

He roams the city, going from block to block, watching citizens in there garments of whites and blacks and tourists in their colors and summer get ups. He keeps an eye out for anything that could be suspicious, a madness that is lurking unseen, a soul that drips with corruption. His senses is wide and open as he studies, a casual observer in a suit and tie; he goes well with the business men, hurrying and punching cellular keys constantly and exchanging deals over the telephone network.

He looks.

It is not like Death City, he thinks, as he crosses the road to the next block with the sun casting fiery orange over glass and concrete while it sets and hides behind a tall and wide building. He cannot see the sky clearly here, he cannot watch the sunset without buildings getting in the way. Things obscure one another, an endless chain that connects the entire city together, holding it as one. He is not part of this chain; he knows this. And there is never comfort in his chest or when he sleeps at night, even in the company of vivacious women and talented dancers, even in the arms of music and colorful glasses in cabaret clubs ...

He is not a part of this.

It is not home.

It is still foreign to him.

And yet, there is a pattern in every city.

Spirit sees it when he stops at a pedestrian, on the other side where a child is pointing at a doll behind a glass display, her small hand in her parent's grip. She is laughing and giggling, her father making finger gestures at the doll, joy and amusement evident in his expression. The world moves ahead and Spirit remains on the pavement, a hand is his pocket, eyes as clear as a morning sky watching the child and her father.

He sees the pattern.

He sees the stamp that is in every city.

It is right there, the familial bond between parent and child, something so universal and permanent that it is unshakable in its presence. All the cities he has seen, all the towns and villages, the pattern is there. And Spirit feels something stir in him at the sight of something so familiar ...

_(And he knew what that felt like, once upon a time ago when tiny hands held his, and they spoke of dreams and chased butterflies and painted rainbows. They were days where he didn't have to try so hard, where what he gave mattered, where he woke up to the sound of bells and adoration stared at him in the face and begged him for a new picture book or to collect sea shells by the sea.)_

The child is laughing again with a doll in her arms and she in her father's._ Maka is too old for dolls now,_ Spirit finds himself thinking. The thought comes with a quick, _she wouldn't want one from you, remember? _And with it follows, _but it's cute and she likes cute stuff. Even as a baby ..._

Spirit blinks once.

The world moves once more.

Spirit steps in to and with it again.

There is a pattern in every city.

He wishes he did not see it.

FIN

This was originally written as an RP sample for a game I recently applied in. I actually kind of liked it in the end and decided to make a few changes and turn it to a fic ... thing.


End file.
